


Just a Cold (Honestly)

by cascadingwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, M/M, Sick Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadingwings/pseuds/cascadingwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a big deal. He's definitely not gonna whine about it. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Cold (Honestly)

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on my [tumblr](http://cascadingwings.tumblr.com/post/59356958934/dean-gets-sick-around-christmastime-its-just-the)

Dean gets sick around Christmastime.

It’s just the common cold, really—he’s hardly even sick at all. It’s just kind of an annoyance, and so Dean ignores it. Thinking he’s gotten too soft, he stifles his coughs and pretends not to notice how his body aches and groans with every movement. He doesn’t tell Sam or Cas, doesn’t want them to think he needs any special treatment—he’s sure it will pass soon.

One week into it, he still holds fast to that idea. He simply waits for it to leave his system. When no one’s around, he makes himself chicken soup from scratch and gulps it down by the gallon. But by the second week, it’s gotten worse: he feels like he’s about to pass out every time he stands, and his body fluctuates constantly between feeling like the Arctic Sea and the Australian Outback. He hasn’t been this sick since he was a kid. Sam and Cas take notice, of course, and so they retire him to research from dusty old books while they go on a hunt by themselves. (Dean, for his own sanity, ignores the list of no less than 11 different “emergency” cell phone numbers they leave taped to the fridge when they leave the bunker. For God’s sake—it’s just a fucking cold.)

Sam and Cas are back within three days. Dean hears them come stomping in, but he can’t bring himself to move from his warm, soft bed. He doesn’t even open his eyes until he hears his door opening and Cas rushing in.

“Hello, Dean—are you awake? Sam’s fine, he’s unpacking the car. How are you? Do you need anything? What can I—“

But Dean can’t stand it, can’t stand that tone Cas is using. It’s the same one he used back when he—you know, had fluffy feathers and a halo. Back when he was out to save the world.

Except now, he just wants to save Dean.

“Cas,” Dean groans through his teeth. _Just a fucking cold. Jesus._ He blinks languidly, vision blurring so that he can only see the outline of his friend. “Shut up and tell me about the hunt.”

Cas does, but Dean can barely process any of it. Every thought seemed to trail off and disintegrate before he could complete it. And the rest of him isn’t doing much better. By now, he’s almost too weak too walk; his head spins and the room slants violently whenever he tries to stand. His mouth is a desert, scorching and dry no matter how much water he drinks. His bones and muscles scream in protest whenever he does so much as shift an arm or leg. He thinks he’s probably feverish, and his vision’s definitely gone to shit; sometimes he sees flashes of light where he’s sure there aren’t any.

Cas’s hands flutter uselessly over him. He finally settles one on Dean’s left shoulder and the other on his forehead to check for fever. If he’d had the strength, Dean would have pushed him away; since he doesn’t, he’s forced to lie there and endure the outrageously offensive treatment.

“You’re very hot,” Cas says unsteadily, lurching to his feet.

“Well thanks, Cas. You should see me when I’m not laid up on my deathbed.”

“I mean it,” Cas snaps as he moves to the door. “You’ve got a high fever. Wait here.”

As if Dean could really go anywhere.

Cas returns almost instantly with a huge glass of ice water and a washcloth. He sets the cup on Dean’s nightstand, soaking the cloth and wringing it out before he drapes it across Dean’s forehead. He drops to sit on the edge of Dean’s bed so that he can hold it in place.

“Cas, _Jesus_ , cut it out, I’m not—“

Dean is cut off abruptly when Cas shoves a thermometer into his mouth. Cas holds it under his tongue, using his other hand to hold Dean’s jaw closed, until the device emits a shrill beep that rings in Dean’s ears for a minute at least.

“Not as bad as I expected,” Cas murmurs as Dean sputters. The former angel bites his lip as he stares down at tiny digital screen before looking back up to meet Dean’s eyes. “I’m very sure that this is just a virus. Like you said. A cold, or the flu. That means that antibiotics won’t help you, but rest and water will.”

Dean gives a noncommittal groan, wiping at his mouth as he tosses away the damp washcloth. He rolls over onto his side, away from Cas.

The two fall silent for a few moments: Dean breathing unevenly, Cas perching on the edge of the bed.

Cas turns his head away from him. He blinks hard a few times, as if willing something to go away. “I just wish…I just want to be able to heal you,” he whispers, and to Dean’s shock, Cas’s voice sounds _broken._

_Just a fucking cold, goddamn—_

They both go still; Dean cuts off the flow of air to his lungs. Then, abruptly, he rolls back to his angel, grabbing at his wrists and tugging him down beside him faster than he can think. Dean’s body doesn’t register the pain of the movement—his nerves are far too preoccupied with the fact that Cas is now sprawled out across the mattress next to him, mere inches away.

Cas’s lips are parted in surprise, but his eyes are still in agony. “Dean…”

“Shhh,” the hunter whispers, and presses his fingers to Cas’s lips. He shudders when he feels the heat of Cas’s exhale. “Just…stay here for a minute?”

Castiel swallows and nods mutely, so Dean curls his hand into Cas’s shirt.

They remain like that for a while, simply lying there facing each other. They stay like that long enough for Dean’s eyes to fall closed, and he figures that at this point, he can’t be held responsible for the words that spill out of his mouth. They’re beyond his control.

“Just because you can’t zap us places or gank demons in a split second flat anymore doesn’t change what you are to us,” Dean slurs tiredly. He refuses to think about what he’s doing or open his eyes as he curls himself into Cas, pressing close. He’s exhausted, after all—he can’t be blamed for the way he pushes his fingers through soft dark hair and threads his legs through his friend’s. He doesn’t feel embarrassed, emboldened, or nervous; all he feels is the heat from Cas’s body. “Just because you can’t heal me with your magic mojo anymore doesn’t mean you can’t help me get better.” Almost unconsciously, Dean brushes his lips along Cas’s jaw. “Just…this…is helping already. _Cas_ ,” he sighs, and the word is sweet.

Dean has himself wrapped so closely around Cas now that he can feel how the fallen angel trembles when he says his name. Dean hears his breath catch, and then Cas is sliding his arms around the hunter at last.

“I’m here,” Cas whispers, but the world is beginning to fade around edges for Dean; it’s difficult to hang on to the last shreds of consciousness when sleep tempts him so.

The last thing that Dean hears before he drifts into the cool relief of darkness is his name, said soft and slow like a promise.

And he feels safe.


End file.
